


she was just seventeen (if you know what I mean)

by MarmaladeSkies (HazardLights)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, F/M, Genderswap, Liverpool, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Swearing, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazardLights/pseuds/MarmaladeSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is rough and messy with bruised knuckles and smoke on her breath. Paul is certainly not in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she was just seventeen (if you know what I mean)

**Author's Note:**

> So… this was basically me being curious about girl!John and also trying out a few different writing techniques while I’m at it (prepare yourself for second person narrative) (and slight overuse of brackets)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The characters are my interpretations, I don't know what they are/were really like. This story is for entertainment purposes only, no libel intended.

The first time you see John she’s on a stage (of course she’s on a stage). She’s playing lead guitar and you notice that she's playing it wrong, using banjo chords, but that doesn't matter because most of the audience hasn't noticed anyway.

She’s so fucking incredible onstage, her voice is low and rough but she hits all the high notes like it’s nothing. She sings like she’s never lost her voice and she strums her guitar like she’s never had blisters on her fingers but you know she’s experienced both. She must have, singing and playing so recklessly.

You meet her later that evening, her hand on your chest, smelling like smoke and beer and it should revolt you but instead it mesmerises you and you can’t stop looking at her. She’s got messy auburn hair that’s all over the place and a smile that edges on being cruel. She’s drunk and won’t remember you in the morning, but you have her for now.

The next time you see John, she’s beating the shit out of some boy. She’s stronger than her petite frame suggests and it upsets you that she lives in a world where she has to be good at fighting. She gets thrown to the ground and you want to run to her but something makes you stay put, call it perverse curiosity but you want to watch this girl fight.

She gets back up, quicker than she went down, and kicks the boy hard in the shin. He drops to the ground with an anguished cry. Quick as a flash, John drops her elbow and it connects high up the boy’s back. He crumbles to the ground with a low moan and barely moves. (You choose not to think about the times when it’s her falling, when it’s her crashing to the ground like an autumn leaf that even the wind can’t catch.)

She spots you. Wiping blood off her lips with the back of her hand, she smiles. It’s a nasty mean smile that you want to hate but find that you can’t. She stands there and lights a cigarette and you walk away because she’s a story that you’re not sure you want to be a part of.

 

The third time you see John, she’s at a house party. She’s drunk and sitting on some bloke’s lap, talking and laughing to everyone around her. She’s loud and crass, cigarette dangling out of her mouth and fingers reaching towards her bottle of beer on the table. She’s wearing a short skirt with her legs spread wide and you can just make out the dark outline of her black panties. You look up to find her watching you with a smile, she doesn’t close her legs.

Later that night you find her stumbling around out the front of the house, lip stick smeared and a glassy sheen to her eyes. You hold her hair back as she vomits into a plant pot.

“What’s yer name?” she asks, squinting as she peers up at you.

“Paul,” you tell her, meeting her gaze head on. She doesn’t say her name, she knows she doesn’t have to, you already know.

She taps you on the shoulder and slips back inside. You find yourself feeling cold.

 

You see her so many times after that night that you lose count. You’re a part of her story now, whether you like it or not, only you don’t mind so much now.

 

John has this boy, George, who looks out for her, as much as anyone can. He also may or may not be in love with her, but that’s beside the point.

George is two years younger than John and you know that she sees him as a little brother, he probably knows it too. He follows her around and dotes on her and she lets him because maybe she likes that kind of love, the devoted kind that never runs out.

When you start hanging out with John more, George takes you to the side and says, “I want to say don’t hurt her, but I think we both know who will be doing the hurting,” and you recognise the sound of bitter experience in his voice, sour like rotten nostalgia but sharp and sweet like mixed vodka.

(Much later George will corner you at a party, swaying a little from the drink, "I can't stop it from happening," he’ll say miserably and you’ll want to pat his shoulder and say “me neither,” but you won’t because you can stop it, you can walk away and never see or talk to John again, but you keep choosing not to.)

And then there’s Aunt Mimi – now there’s a woman.

Mimi is strict on John, enforcing firm curfews and subtly finding ways to put John down. You know that Mimi’s only trying to dim John’s light, trying to protect her, stop her from being a beacon of trouble.

You also know that Mimi stays awake at night. Waiting to hear John come home, listening for the clink of a key turning and the slight whine of a door opening, before she can fall asleep. You also know that Mimi defends John against the harsh whispers of the town, silencing them with strong words and you learn where John gets her assertiveness from.

Mimi and George both act like John’s guard dogs, but she treats them like pets. Most of the time, John’s amused by their actions, like they’re tiny dogs growling and biting at other people’s ankles. John doesn’t shatter their illusions though. She lets them fuss over her most of the time, probably believing that any kind of attention is good attention.

 

You spend a lot of time at John’s house playing music. You notice that she’s so rough with everything but her guitar, her room’s usually a mess but her guitar is always propped up somewhere safe, out of harm’s way.

You both sit on her bed, mirroring each other as you sit cross legged. She’s usually only wearing a singlet and a pair of nickers. You do your best to concentrate with that much smooth exposed skin in front of you.

“You wear glasses?” you ask one day, lightly tapping on her dark-rimmed lenses.

She frowns adorably, “I hate them,”

“They look sexy,” you say and you mean it, she’s like a cross between a secretary and a teacher. (You will have so many dirty fantasists of her spanking you after today.)

“I look like Buddy Holly,” she says with a pout that you want to kiss away.

“Buddy Holly is sexy,” you say, bowing your head and smirking at her through your lashes.

It’s silent for a moment. You just continue to play music together; it’s always been easier than talking anyway.

 

You fight a lot. It’s always arbitrary and usually John’s fault.

She makes you so mad sometimes that you want to hit her, but you don’t because you’ve found crueller ways to hurt her. She’s got insecurities, so many of them. You don’t always mean to poke and prod them, like an open wound, but in the heat of the moment you can’t help it.

She shouts at you, calling you a smug little cunt and you shout back, calling her a pretentious know-it-all. You both can go on and on like that for ages.

(John’s tongue curls around words that boil in her mouth, the ones that simmer until they’re hot enough to shoot out like bullets, that’s how John likes her words; dangerous and deadly. A lot of the time you just laugh because it’s easier than crying and you hate her because it’s easier than loving her.)

(Afterwards, you don’t talk for days but you always come together in the end, like an elastic band that’s been pulled from both sides and then released.)

Some days John is so ugly, you can barely stand to look at her. She always comes to you after she’s been in physical fights. She never tells you who or why or how, she never gives you any details at all, just taps on your window and crawls into your bed, making your room smell like her blood and sweat.

Some nights, you lay on her stomach stroking her bruised and bleeding knuckles, hoping to smooth them over, hoping to turn them back into porcelain and marble. On those nights you wish that John would stop acting like she was made out of steel.

 

John’s mother dies and she loses it.

Drugs, alcohol, sex, violence – John has more bruises on her than ever before and you feel completely helpless, can only hold her tight on the nights that she climbs into your room. You fear that one day you’ll wake up in the morning and see her face on the news next to the words, “a tragic loss.”

During those weeks you touch her like she’s made out of broken glass that’s been messily put back together again; you feel like you’ll break her even more or hurt yourself on her skin.

You’re at another party and you haven’t seen John all night. You’re talking to a lovely blonde, you’re trying to line yourself up for a shag but you’re heart isn’t in it tonight. You only see John once that night and you wish that you hadn’t.

(She comes out of the bathroom, lip stick smeared and hair astray, followed by a young lad who’s doing his pants up. You feel disgusted in John and it’s not fair on her because she isn’t yours, she can suck off whoever she wants but you still feel a sickness pooling in your gut.)

There’s another party. John is so drunk that she can barely stand. It’s early in the night; most people are still relatively sober. John stumbles into you and whispers in your ear. She tries to pull you into a bedroom but you push her away.

You don’t see her for a few hours and you feel nervous the whole time.

In the end, you find her outside, sprawled amongst the vegetable garden. She’s singing to herself, it’s mostly mumbles and slurs but you recognise the folk song _Maggie May_. She staggers to her feet once she sees that it’s you and you have to steady her slightly. She’s speaking, it’s too fast and jumbled but you manage to pull out the most important part: “My mum used to sing that, we used to sing it together,”

You walk John back to your house. She’s still mumbling and singing and you join in because it makes her smile. When you get home you drop her into your bed. She stretches and opens her body like a flower in spring, but flowers are soft and beautiful and at 4am this morning John looks harsh and ugly.

"You have no pj's,” you say, mostly to yourself because you think that she can’t hear you.

You turn to see John sitting up, reaching under her clothes and taking off her bra, "sorted" she says as she hiccups and falls back into bed face first. You get into bed with her, you top and tail because you don’t have the courage to face her as she sleeps.

 

It’s a Tuesday.

John and you are both lying on your bed, passing a spliff between you. She leans over and purrs; "Are we going to fuck now or later?"

"Later babe," you say with a wink and she laughs, hooking her foot around your ankle.

You’re used to this game, used to John's words and touches, lingering stares and come-fuck-me eyes. However you’re too proud to give in, to let John win, because if John wins, you lose and you really hate losing.

Besides, you’re not stupid. You know that she only wants you because you keep pushing her away; you know that the first time she opens her legs for you will be the last. You will end up being a single charm on her long string of lovers, a charm that might even fall off one day once it gets too full and she no longer cares to keep track.

"I can suck your cock if you want," John says casually and you stare at her mouth as she swirls her tongue around the joint. She’s not playing fair tonight. The drugs and her relentless teasing has gotten you more worked up than you initially thought. “Or you could put that lovely mouth to good use, yeah?" She puts her hand on your crotch and cups it slightly, a nice steady pressure.

It’s a Tuesday and you finally give in.

John’s on her back and you’re kneeling on the floor, head squeezed between her thighs. You curl your tongue between her folds and she’s struggling under you like a fly caught in a web. You hold her hips down but she keeps trying to grind up against your face.

Eventually you let her go, sucking on her clit while she cants her hips upwards. You’re fingers find their way inside her, she’s already so wet. You stare up at John, she’s propped up on her elbows and looking down at you. Her face is scrunched up, eyes glassy and lips bitten red. You finish her off by circling your thumb around her clit with varying pressure, she’s almost howling and you feel her legs tense up and tremble. And then it’s over, she’s gasping and flopping back down on the bed, breathing heavily and leisurely running her palms along her stomach.

You stand up and look down at John.

She is utterly spent, legs spread wide, calves dangling off the edge of the bed and twitching slightly. Her auburn hair appears so red, it’s fanned out around her face like a halo of blood and she looks so beautiful. She’s still got her bra and singlet on, though it’s now bunched up around the middle and covered in sweat.

You leave her for a moment and go downstairs to make some tea. She meets you on the way back and blows you halfway up the staircase. You don’t last long, way too worked up from the taste and smell and feel of John. It only takes several flicks of her wrist and a swift swirl of her tongue and you’re coming into her open mouth.

You fuck later that night and you take your time because you think that this might be it, she’ll be finished with you after this.

(The cups of tea you made are left abandoned halfway up the staircase and you’ll knock them over on your way down to the bathroom an hour later.)

You wake the next morning. It’s a Wednesday and John is still there. She’s naked, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the edge of the bed. She smiles at you and you smile back.

John is still here.

(That night, you’ll think about how it will inevitably end. You’ll think about George looming behind her like a watchman, facial expression impassive and cold. You’ll think about the words you’ll exchange, and the ones that you won’t. You’ll think about how she’ll turn away from you, her fiery pony tail sailing through the air like a whip. You’ll think about her walking away like a ghost, a story book character lost in the real world, looking for what happens after the happy ending. You’ll think about all of that. Just not yet.)


End file.
